


Destination Unknown

by anextrapart



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anextrapart/pseuds/anextrapart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all feels horribly vague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destination Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm in a posting things kind of mood: this work in progress was started during the summer hiatus in part as wish fulfillment for season 3 and also as an attempt for me to try writing Liz, who I find much more difficult to write than Red (probably because the actual writers of the show can't even settle on characterization for her, but who's bitter?)
> 
> Picks up right at the end of season 2, completely AU from there.

 

 

 

When she opens her eyes again, it's to the the sound of Red's voice softly urging her to wakefulness.  
  
The van is no longer moving and she takes a quick glance out the window to see that they're well clear of the city.  
  
She should have a crick in her neck from sleeping on him like she's been, but it seems he's just about the right height to prevent it. Just about—he's clearly slouched lower in his seat to let her head rest at a more comfortable angle.  
  
It's an unsurprisingly thoughtful act. See, the thing about Red is this:  
  
He'll keep her safe.  
  
She may not always approve of his methods, may not even always want it, but if one thing has been made perfectly, maddeningly, _impossibly_ clear, it's that he's made it his job to protect her. And with the day, week, fucking _year_ that she's had, with how bone-crushingly exhausted she is, it's difficult to not just accept what he offers.  
  
So difficult as to be impossible, it would seem, because not five minutes after they settled into the car—just shy of pressed together at the hip—she let herself give in. Didn't ask about the plan, didn't let herself think, just incrementally collapsed to his shoulder.  
  
She didn't miss his slight intake of breath, the subtle twitch of his fingers in his lap, but he relaxed beneath her so quickly that now, hours later, she can almost believe she saw nothing at all.  
  
She observes him as she blinks the sleep from her eyes and notes the faint reddened mark on his left cheek—it tells her that he was resting his own head on hers for some time before she woke. She can hardly blame him for seeking what meager comfort he could from the act, not when she had been doing the very same thing.  
  
"I'm sorry to wake you," he says in that same soft voice, "but you can sleep again soon."  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"Private airstrip—a plane is waiting for us."  
  
She's fleeing the country. She just shot the Attorney General and is _fleeing the country_ -  
  
"Lizzie?"  
  
She shakes herself. "Sorry. Zoned out."  
  
"You need more rest," he says with concern. "Come on, we'll have wheels up in no time."  
  
She climbs out of the car after him in a slight daze, lets him drop into step beside her and rest a lightly guiding hand on her back.  
  
There are only a few people milling around and Red acknowledges them with a nod and some words that she doesn't listen to. He urges her up the steps of the plane and she trudges on, focusing on not tripping over her tired feet.  
  
The plane is smaller than the last she'd been on with him but is no less nice for it, and she watches a bit numbly as he removes his windbreaker, folding it once and draping it over the back of one of the seats.  
  
"Go ahead and have a seat. I just need to have a word with the pilot and then we can be on our way."  
  
She nods wordlessly and he watches her for a moment in obvious concern before turning and disappearing into another section of the plane.  
  
Alone, she shivers and wraps her arms around herself, unsure if the chill is from the recirculating air of the plane or some belated form of shock setting in.  
  
She stares around the cabin. She needs to choose a seat.  
  
The decision is made in a scant five seconds and when Red returns minutes later, she's zipped up in his jacket and curled in the seat beside the one he'd claimed earlier.  
  
Her eyes are closed again but she hears the almost imperceptible hesitation in his steps when he sees her—she expects words then, assurances that all is well, but he simply lowers himself to the seat beside her.  
  
It is so, so easy to drop her head to his shoulder again, to rest her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt.  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
"Canada, briefly," he says, quiet and close. "I have some arrangements to make."  
  
"And then?"  
  
"And then anywhere you want."  
  
What, like this is some bizarre vacation?  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"I thought it seemed fairly self-evident. You'll need to decide quickly," he says, not unkindly, "but you can choose just about anywhere."  
  
"We have work to do, we can't just…" Run and hide.  
  
"There isn't much to do at the moment. I'll explain in full later," he insists when she starts to protest, "but the best thing to do right now is stay off the radar for a bit. And a few days of rest will be extremely beneficial."  
  
It all feels horribly vague.  
  
"What about you?" she asks.  
  
"What about me?"  
  
She can't think of a single way to phrase the question without it sounding hopelessly needy, without seeming like she's asking more than she's really asking.  
  
(Maybe she is.)  
  
Screw it. She wants to know.  
  
"You staying with me?"  
  
There's only a minor hesitation before his hand presses over hers on the armrest—she pictures his face back in DC when she told him that she remembered, more afraid than she's ever seen him.  
  
"Yeah," he says.  
  
Something in her chest unclenches and she breathes a little easier—they're in this together.  
  
(And what is it about that word again, _yeah_ and not _yes_ , that makes her want to do something insane like wrap her arms around him?)  
  
She feels his slow exhale as he settles deeper into his seat, a half-disguised move to shift his shoulder for her from that level of almost-comfortable to just _comfortable_.    
  
She expects to be asleep in minutes now, exhausted but warm and safe, and she thanks him with a turn of her hand beneath his, with the loose way she laces their fingers together.  
  
His thumb brushes the back of her hand. "You alright?"  
  
"Yeah," she says, and it's not a lie.  
  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
  
Their stop in Canada is little more for her than a switch from one plane to another—the new one is much larger.  
  
He ushers her quickly onboard, removing his hat and crouching at her feet once she's seated. She's still wrapped in his jacket, hands balled up protectively in the too-long sleeves.  
  
"I need to meet with a few of my people," he tells her, "and make sure things are progressing as they should. They also need to prepare a flight plan—have you chosen our destination?"  
  
"I don't really care—I just want to sleep for the next year." She feels a little better after her nap, more alert, but she still can't shake the exhaustion that has settled deep in her bones.  
  
"Somewhere relaxing, then," he muses. "Would you prefer a warm or cold climate?"  
  
"Warm, definitely."  
  
"How warm?" He smiles when she gives him a half-hearted glare. "Warmth is relative, Lizzie. Beach-warm or desert-warm?"  
  
"Why would I ever want to go to a desert?"  
  
He chuckles. "They're not so bad, but point taken—no deserts. Sun or rain?"  
  
She arches a brow at him. "I wasn't aware you could control the weather."  
  
"I can control whether or not we go to a country in the middle of its monsoon season."  
  
Fair enough.  
  
"Let's not do that. Some sun would be nice," she admits.  
  
"So somewhere relaxing, warm-but-not-too-warm, and sunny—now we have criteria to work within."  
  
He looks at her expectantly and somehow this decision feels impossible, feels like far too much to handle. It should be easy, as easy as simply naming a country, _any_ country because what the hell's the difference anyway, but she feels terribly overwhelmed.  
  
She can't do it.  
  
"You pick."  
  
His brow furrows. "You're sure? I thought you might like to choose. Anywhere you want, Lizzie."  
  
"I'm sure. I bet you're full of ideas."  
  
"A few, but…"  
  
"I'll pick the next one," she offers, beginning to steel herself for an argument. _Really, Lizzie, I must insist that you decide..._  
  
Instead, his face lights up.  
  
"I know just the place."  
  
That was weirdly easy.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Oh, no." He smirks at her. "You've relinquished the decision-making to me so now it's going to be a surprise."  
  
Of course.  
  
"You realize you're infuriating?"  
  
"I do, yes." He puts his hat back on with an impish smile, and she bats away the bizarre urge to playfully smack the brim down over his eyes. Clearly she's gone loopy with exhaustion.  
  
"I'll be just outside if you need anything or want to stretch your legs. We should be wheels up within the half hour."  
  
He smiles once more before hurrying away.  
  
Being so tired is obviously wreaking havoc on her profiling skills, because it's another five minutes before she understands the reason for his sudden upswing in mood.  
  
_I'll pick the next one._  
  
She as good as promised that she'll still be with him in the future.  
  
And of course they're going to be together for a while, considering the mess they're in—part of her thinks that maybe she should be annoyed with him for deriving any kind of enjoyment from this situation, but honestly it just makes her _sad_.  
  
He's so lonely.  
  
Her head aches with all of the revelations of the day, with how the terrain has shifted beneath her feet.  
  
Red is lonely and it makes her sad because she _cares_. And the thing is, she's always cared on some level—but it's a level that has long been buried far, far beneath layers of frustration and mistrust and no small amount of stubbornness.  
  
She's been trying her damnedest not to examine the thing that pushed her over the edge today, the final nail in Tom Connolly's coffin.  
  
He threatened the people that she cares about most and the rage inside her grew with every single one, with each of those _good_ people. In a matter of seconds she flashed through memories of Aram's good humor, Samar's quiet strength. Ressler's loyal presence at her back. Cooper's guidance.  
  
Connolly's fatal mistake was saving Red for last.  
  
_Treason charges and the death penalty for Reddington._  
  
It was too much, too soon, too close to the day she saw him with his chest splayed open on a makeshift operating table, his blood still warm and sticky between her fingers.  
  
She may occasionally get the urge to throttle him, but that doesn't mean he's actually allowed to _die_.  
  
The fury that crashed through her nearly brought her to her knees, sent a tremor through her hands. The realization is terrifying, that Red was in danger and she was reduced to nothing but instincts.  
  
Only three thoughts crossed her mind.  
  
No.  
  
Protect.  
  
_Mine._  
  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
  
She's in so much trouble.

 

 

  


* * *

  
TBC?

I'm unclear as to whether this will continue or not. Figured I'd post it and get some of your thoughts.


End file.
